An Abecean Heartache
by Brian TES
Summary: A short story based in The Elder Scrolls universe, packed with love full of foolishness, deceit, love, hate, and a little Yokudan for good measure.


Part One: The Curse of Freedom

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I. It's my name. I used to have a longer name, full of meaning, full of love, it was Crucius Cruxio. That's gone now. Sometimes I'm called "Cell 4," or any of various Raga swear words, but they all slip past me as mindlessly I begin to rot. I go only by I know, lest I remind myself of who I was. Oh, how bittersweet is this virus we call freedom, how bittersweet is this gift of revenge.

The date of the night is irrelevant, rather I can't or don't wish to remember. I stepped off the ship, relieved to be free from the damp smell of sailor sweat and booze below deck. The Rihad port, how painfully familiar it seemed, even in the thick blanket fog of morning fog.

The ship hands and beggars stared at me, but the creaks and moans of the old wooden docks seemed to echo their thoughts. Even the moons seemed to glare down upon me, like silent witnesses of the gods themselves. I was surprised to arrive at the predetermined location unharmed, and knocked on the door, looking side to side, as if the lackadaisical guard force of Rihad would be patrolling at this hour in the first place.

A volley of gibberish whispers, then boots clamoring and gold jingling. A man cracked the door opened and peered out with one eye as it squealed unnervingly, like a sow being slaughtered. I heard him whisper "It's Him," and then the door was pulled wide open, and I was pulled right in. Behind a poorly constructed makeshift table stood Mahez. He was a tall, lanky Redguard bearing rust colored skin and hair like burnt grass, hardly an aesthetic being to the ladies. His paranoia was so obvious, as his eyes and fingers twitched madly. He slammed his hands on the table. "It's about time, Cruxio," he said, disappointingly attempting to mask his Alik'r accent.

"Patience is a virtue, my friend," I asserted in a noble tone. I caught him rolling his eyes, as they flickered in the only dim candlelight adding brightness to the dark, lower-class shack.

"Very well, we have your goods, then," he said faking a smile. With a snap of his fingers, his two henchmen of sorts pulled bags from underneath the table. They were emptied, revealing all sorts of exotic and intriguing trinkets. Smooth swords, white as snow, fanciful clothing seemingly spun of silk and sand, and a jade eel, just to name a few. I looked on in amazement. Moral inhibitions were pulled from my skin; some of the finest, rarest treasures of Hammerfell were at my disposal. Reaching for my coin bag I managed to croak out "I am satisfied."

"Ah, but there's more," said Mahez, a grin sweeping his face like a tidal wave.

"And what, pray tell, is that?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Some items were too large to display here, it is such small shack after all," he said, handing me a quill pen and a slice of parchment. "Give us your address, and we'll have it shipped in no time!"

Ah, how we embrace the fallacies of man. Greed swept over my soul as a mother would tuck her child in at night, setting my conscience to sleep. How I loathe thinking of penning my address so hastily in the damp candlelight that night. Mahez smiled as he grabbed the parchment, crumpling it up and shoving it in his shirt pocket. He patted his accomplices on the back and said "Give us the payment we agreed on, and all is done. Your shop will be stocked with the most beautiful goods Mother Alik'r has to offer, at little price to you." With a sickening smile I handed him my gold. The sound still echoes eerily in my head, enraging me.

With a handshake, I stepped out the door to see Jode fall of the edge of the Abecean, and the warmth of sunlight poured over, amplified by the sea air. The deed was done, or was it? I looked back, seeing a city by the light divided. I silently said farewell to Rihad as I stepped foot on the boat. For home in Taneth, I was bound.

I looked back again to see three horses racing through the sand, kicking up a veil of sand behind them. "Is this worth it?" I thought to myself. I know now I should judge my instincts rather than the looks upon my family's monetarily pleased faces when making decisions like that. The subtle sloshing of the tides lulled me to sleep (something I now dearly miss.)

**Part Two: The Gift of Revenge**

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Red. The walls were red. The ceiling was red. The bottoms of my shoes were red. I closed the door of my small hovel behind me as an enraged tear fell from my chin, falling into a puddle of blood. For an hour it seemed I stood there, immobilized by shock. I regained my composure and made my way across the room. The candelabra in the corner was almost at its wicks end as I began to ascend the stairs, the scent of matches hanging in the air.

There she was, body covered in stab wounds and burn marks. I fell to my knees, holding her grotesque, mangled body in my shaking arms. Never have I wept like I wept then, it is embarrassing even to admit. I laid her peacefully down on our bed, brushing her hair from her face, which was pocked with coagulated blood. It may seem odd to most that my first feeling was not of sadness or malice, but betrayal. It maddened me. So mad was I, that the gods of this world could create men as mindless as those who had done this.

I returned to the main floor and notice something sickeningly peculiar. The blood was pooled into the shape of a serpent, its eye, a human eye. It was the eye of my daughter, who was leaned up against the corner. I picked a small, neatly written note from her dress pocket. I cleared my throat and slowly read it aloud to myself.

_"You imperials are just like your gods, tobr'a" _

The note became soggy in my sweaty hands. I screamed out towards the sky as I slammed open the door. Rampant ran my thoughts, like ants running to honey. Suddenly, it hit me. I knew who had done this, and where to find him. I licked my cracked lips and said to the stable boy, "I'll take the black horse, in the corner. He thanked me and took the gold. I mounted the horse and just before I heard the (all too familiar) sound of "by the gods, somebody's been murdered!"

Riding through Goldmoor in the spring is utterly beautiful. It's a delightful interplay on the senses; half-bloomed flowers, contorted rocks, the smell and the spray of the sea brushing against your face. It creates an emotional numbing. Unfortunately this didn't set in for me: all I felt was my vengeful heart pounding against my ribs. The rolling hills swooped up and down; Rihad became visible in the distance.

The sound of bells ringing and gulls clamoring echoed over the valley. The mainsails of run-down galleons and expensive yachts poked though the low-lying clouds. I had returned, but I would never, even if I tried, leave.

The evening sun basked the city in a dull orange light. A group of tall, hardy Nord sailors whispered and pointed as I walked past. I had a feeling they knew why I was back. I placed my hand on my scabbard; the cold metal handle of the sword sent a chill through me. How rich was the rage flowing, pulsating through me, consuming me, driving me to complete my task. Through every shop, every tavern, I searched for Mahez. This was his turf after all.

I found him buzzed in a lavish tavern by the shore of the Brena River. It stood out like a sore thumb against the city's rustic aesthetic, and obvious spot for a bandit lord to hide after a big haul. He was laughing and singing along with the nobles who likely frequented this place, but he stood out being the only one covered in spilled ale. I lightly tapped him on the shoulder. "By the Boneshaver, who are y-" was all he could manage to say as he turned and my fist slammed into his temple, bones cracking, teeth flying. The other drunks didn't seem to notice as I threw him by the collar out the door and into the street. The residents began to gather around at the cry of "fight!"

Mahez spoke very fast in Yoku as I proceeded to beat him in every way I could think of. He curled up into a ball like the coward he was. I picked him up, and his face was marked with my boot print. I pulled forth my sword and whispered into his ear "You're wrong, for it is you who is worthless and you who is evil." With a cackle I sunk my sword into his gut. Bones snapped and blood spurted as I twisted it back and forth. It pierced through his back, the reddened blade shone in the falling sun. I pulled it out and fell backwards, the harsh reality of what I just did hit me like landslide.

I sat there on the board walk awestruck and covered in viscera; Mahez's chest rose, then fell, but did not come back up again. I vaguely remember the cold gauntlets of the guards grab my arms and haul me away without thought, and into the cell where I now sit. Oh, how bittersweet is this virus we call freedom, how bittersweet is this gift of revenge.


End file.
